Poker Face
by Missing Snowman
Summary: While dealing with increased leg pain, House decides to satisfy his curiosity and shapes an encounter with his half-brother.
1. Chapter 1

House sat in the small CCTV room, his cane propped up against the table and his face illuminated by the bluish light of the monitor. It made him look old, but that was the times as much as the lighting. Frustrated and tired, his face looked gaunt, his hair stood ruffled so that you could still trace the habitual movement of his hand through its contours. The bulb-less lamp hung futile and dusty. He hadn't looked at his watch for what must have been hours, yet his leg throbbed rhythmically. A mocking pendulum that pulsed through his thigh, as time slowly bled into the past.

His heart missed a beat as he saw what he was looking for, he quickly paused the screen. That was him. He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes, certainly looked similar. The figure he had paused on was looking slightly to the left of the camera, probably at the sign that directed patients to the clinic reception. He looked to be in his mid thirties, white, with thick hair that stood on end - brown, House suspected from the grainy black and white image, and with blue eyes. He was tall, from what House could see, strong built but skinny. He checked the date and time on the monitor, 12/12/04 14:56:05. He opened the file that lay on the desk, this was the last time he had visited the hospital; House knew he had moved nearer to home after that. A cough, and an unspecified itch. House chuckled and grinned slyly.

His pager went off. He cursed. He fumbled. you were wrong. He cursed again, this meant another differential. He felt for sure he was right, everything had fit perfectly into place. He stuffed the file into his backpack and reached for his cane. He pushed his chair back, memorised the doors' position and turned the monitor off like Albert, the bribed minimum wage security guard, had told him to. The room went dark, momentarily leaving behind the negative afterimage of the door. His photoreceptors adjusted and it was gone. A practiced hand reached into his pocket and lifted his Vicodin. He took three in one gulp and rested his head back against the chair, waiting for the numbness. He lifted himself, carefully placing all his weight on his left leg. His thigh still felt the strain, it was stiff, he had been sitting longer than he thought. He hobbled towards the door, pushing down heavily on his cane. He reached for where he knew the handle would be and met with smooth wood. He panicked, feeling the blood rising in his face as he groped at the featureless door. He hated small spaces, he had his father to blame for that. His hand struck the door handle, metal against bone had never sounded so good. Relieved and suddenly glad this weakness was stifled within the dark room, House took a deep breath and opened the door.

---

House swung open the door to the differential room.

"You were wrong" Thirteen said without even looking at him.

"I got that, thanks to your heartfelt message, and I wasn't wrong." House moved towards his chair while he spoke. "It was just the wrong treatment".

Thirteen looked up, angry now.

"The treatment wouldn't have made her cough up blood, and neither would your diagnosis of cancer. The surgery has just made her weaker. It's a new symptom, we were wrong".

"So now we're all to blame, I was starting to think it was all my fault" House said mocking a hurtful expression which made Kutner stifle a laugh. House sat down, sighed and distractedly began massaging his leg. Thirteen glared at him. Taub stood by the whiteboard, pen at the ready, with an exasperated expression, unsure whether it would ever be wise to interrupt.

"Well" said House, redirecting his sarcasm for a more varied effect "Haemoptysise the board already!"

"Err…right" mumbled Taub, catching House's meaning and proceeding to write Haemoptysis on the board under the other incongruent symptoms.

House paused, he stopped his leg massage, and looked up.

"Hand me the history." Kutner tossed the file across the table. House grabbed it, and quickly flicked through the few pages, eyes moving across each page quickly, looking for the one word that would nourish his new diagnosis. He spotted it.

"You idiots. You absolute idiots" House threw the open file to Thirteen. "She's been to Africa, and was treated one month before for a urinary infection. She was given Corticosteroid."

"I don't see how…" Thirteen mumbled before House continued.

"She had a allergic reaction to the Corticosteroid, unusual which is why she wasn't tested for it, it weakened her immune system and made her more easily susceptible to Coccidioidomycosis. We didn't see it because it was hiding behind the extroverted anaphylaxis. We stopped the drugs when she arrived, but she had a mild, latent response, until we restated her heart and gave her the shock of adrenalin she needed. It explains the varied symptoms, and why the important ones have only just surfaced. Biopsy the patient's lung to confirm and start treatment before she dies."

Thirteen pushed her chair back without looking at House, and left with Kutner close on her heels. Taub placed the lid on the pen, grabbed his lab coat from the back of a chair and headed silently towards the door.

"What's up with thirteen?" House asked before Taub had time to reach the door. House looked at Taub, with his best poker face on.

Taub paused, shrugged and reached for the door handle, "she…spilt her coffee this morning" he said, groping for a specific reason for typical moodiness. House nodded and was once again alone. He took some more Vicodin for good measure before he stood quickly and headed for his office, intent once more on his plans.

---

The letter was written and Cuddy's signature successfully forged. All that remained was for the surreptitious placement of it in the outgoing tray of the main reception. Hook, line and sinker. House smiled, slightly high, and began beating a drum solo into his desk. Wilson opened the glass door, and leaned in. House mirrored his expression of rushed exasperation.

"You'll want a lift home, it's snowing pretty heavy out". He paused and looked at House. "And you're not driving your bike high."

"I'm not high" smiled House, trying to look at Wilson without his eyes veering off to the light playing on the glass.

"Right, well get your coat I'm leaving in five minutes" he said shutting the door behind him. Wilson shook his head and sighed, rubbing his forehead as he walked towards his office, filled with the well worn emotions of frustration and worry.

---

They didn't speak in the lift. House had taken twenty minutes to find his coat, but his eyes were more focused now. As they walked through the entrance hall to the hospital, House glanced at the CCTV camera he had been spying through. He moved towards the reception and slid the letter in the outgoing pile. The receptionist didn't look twice, but Wilson looked curious.

"What was that? You're not one to send mail personally."

"It's a Christmas card." House answered, wide eyed and innocent.

"It's January, and you never send Christmas cards."

"Then what was it?" House philosophised, riding his Vicodin high and walking a little faster than Wilson.

"Fine" sighed Wilson raising his hands in surrender, realising this would go nowhere, and he continued to walk just behind House. House lifted his hand to his coat's collar and brought it up to protect him from the bitter wind when they reached outside. Wilson's eye caught Houses' hand; his little finger was bruised quite badly, and from its odd angle looked broken. "What happened to your hand?"

House looked around, a little taken aback. Wilson nodded towards his left hand, House looked down and frowned.

"Did you not feel it? How much Vicodin did you take?"

House ignored the question and brought his injured hand up to his chest to inspect it. He probed it a little, before deciding on the point of dislocation and immediately popped it back with a disturbing crack. Without so much as a wince he reached over the receptionists desk, ripped some tape off the little stand and wrapped his two fingers together, using the second as a splint.

"A lot" he answered with a wry smile, before continuing to walk towards the doors, with a frowning Wilson in tow.


	2. Chapter 2

--- _two weeks later ---_

"House"

"House"

"HOUSE"

- "What?" House stirred. He was sitting in his office, Cameron was still there.

"Were you even listening to me?" Cameron whined.

House thought whether an answer of yes or no would make her leave faster. He gambled.

"Yes".

"Fine then, make sure you at least fill out this weeks' paper work before Friday." House nodded slowly, not meeting her eye, she frowned, but she turned and left.

House checked his watch. 11:03. The man he intended to meet had been told in the letter to arrive at 11:45 and to wait outside Exam Room Two. House had been careful not to use his name, it might arouse suspicion. He didn't have clinic duty, he had booked the time in Wilson's name. He had been planning up to this moment for weeks, but he still didn't know what he was going to do when the man walked into the exam room. He knew what he looked like, knew his medical history, his blood type, his past. The team were off with some patient, apparently a rich one; important to the hospital but boring to the distracted mind of House. He doubted she was even ill, a flourish of white coats and sympathy would do her - neither of which House could deliver with sincerity. He tapped his cane on the floor impatiently, allowing it to judder and hop back into his hand. Rhythmically. Like the throb in his leg, pulsing pain. He checked his watch again. Tick. Tick. Tick. Vicodin. He got up and left as quickly as his cane and a recent boost of the good stuff would allow him, bored to frustration, allowing the festering apprehension to stir in the pit of his stomach.

He made his way to Wilson's office, threw open the door and sat down opposite a startled Wilson. He leaned his chin on his cane and blew air from cheek to cheek ponderously, without looking at Wilson.

"Can I help you?" Wilson queried, a little uncertain how he should react in these situations.

"I sent a very convincing invitation out, telling somebody it was of mortal importance they arrive at the clinic" he glanced at his watch "in about half an hour."

Wilson remained still, hand poised about the sign his name, he opened his mouth to say something but House was about to tell him. They met eyes.

"He's my brother" said House.

"Your… brother?" said Wilson raising his eyebrows in surprise. "Wha-"

"-My half-brother, by my real father - my biological father. I'm going to prove it with a blood sample".

Wilson sighed and leaned back, dropping his pen he asked "And then what?"

"I don't know" House mumbled averting his eyes again and leaning back himself, "family reunion, cheese cake, balloons."

"This will affect further than just you House, your brothers' family, you fathers' memory -"

House paused for a moment, and nodded once.

Thoughtful silence…

Awkward silence….

"Well, obla-dee obla-dah" said House jumping up and limping heavily towards the door. He stepped out of the room and closed the door behind him. Leaning his head back against the wood, he hooked his cane over his arm and popped another three Vicodin. That didn't help as much as he had hoped. Wincing, House set off towards the clinic.

Wilson listened for House's footsteps leaving down the hall. There was a pause as he left, and an all too familiar rattle of pills, before finally the clomp-step of his limping could be heard growing fainter.

"Life goes on", he completed under his breath to an empty room. Wilson was intrigued at how big a step this was for House to actively shape an encounter with his brother. House's brother presented a different past; a fair one. Wilson wondered how different House would have been had everything in his life seemed 'fair'. Would he still be the genius he is? Would he be happy? Wilson distractedly continued to sign his pile forms. Time passed. His pager went off. He sighed, before cancelling his next appointment, grabbing his lab coat and hurrying down to the clinic.

---

House spun on the stool of the exam room. He felt like he needed to sneeze. The winter had inspired a mass pursuit of antibiotics in order to ensure the quick demise of phlegm and all things gross; too many a doomed cold had House seen clinging to the nostrils' of the ill.

He checked his watch, 11:40. He would be waiting outside now, if his letter had indeed spawned as much fear as intended; plague, imminent death, highly contagious - House chuckled, removing his latex gloves and aiming badly at the bin. He sighed, pleased that nobody had seen the glove flop embarrassingly to the floor.

A knock.

A nurse opened the door and guided Houses' next patient into the room. She left quickly without looking at House, most tried their best to avoid him, and it suited. The two brothers were left alone.

"Take a seat. My name is…" House hesitated for a moment, "my name's Doctor Wilson."

The man shook his hand.

"Calum Mycroft."

The man sat rather awkwardly on the edge of the hospital bed. He looked quite young, his hair darker than Houses' but with exactly the same bright blue eyes. He looked bored.

"So what seems to be the problem?" House asked.

The man handed House the letter. "My inevitable doom." he announced with a hint of melodrama. He cocked his head. "Seriously, it's fake isn't it?"

House smiled slightly, taking the letter. "I'll need a blood sample."

"Are you kidding? It misspelled plague."

"Oh yeah…too many vowels anyway. Then why did you come?"

"Curiosity." Calum leaned back and looked accusatorily at House. "And you should never ignore a letter with 'DEATH' typed in bold throughout."

House genuinely smiled. It was his own joke reflected back at him, but the guy clearly had the same sense of humour. He took a quick breath to speak - then the door opened. Wilson shifted around the door, apologised handsomely for the interruption and extended his hand to House's patient.

"I'm Dr Wilson" he said smiling boyishly, House didn't shift his gaze from the blue eyes of the man sitting opposite. Calum frowned and looked at House, conspicuously lacking a lab coat.

"We're brothers" interjected House before Calum even had chance to grasp Wilson's hand.

"Oh, I see" said the man, and shook Wilson's hand, who in turn stepped back and looked at House curiously.

"So you told him then." He muttered under his breath, while Calum peered awkwardly around the room. He spun his mind back into the conversation.

"Told me what?" he enquired, a little anxious.

"That we need a blood sample" House spoke quickly, before Wilson could mess things up "Dr Wilson is the acting nurse for today."

Wilson never intended to play along, but if House chose to play this game then he wasn't going to put his foot in it now. Wilson would be left with the blame smeared over his face. This wouldn't be Wilson's fault, it was House's game.

He smiled. "Yes, I'll just get the syringe shall I". His plastic grin remained longer than was natural, and he looked at House simultaneously with utter annoyance as he reached into the draw.

"So, Calum, what do you do for a living?" House asked as Calum watched Wilson prepare the needle.

"I'm a government paid hacker." He rolled up his sleeve as House and Wilson both looked impressed. Calum grinned as he peered up. "I know, it's a dangerous idea, right? It's all in the name of defence, presumably. I can't much be bothered, I just treat it like a game, solve the puzzle, move up the levels. The money comes in, I'm just a piece of software."

Wilson approached with the needle, Calum's forearm and wrist were scarred with innumerable small puncture marks. He located the man's vein, wiped the skin and poised to insert the syringe.

"This won't hurt abit." He said, with well hidden sarcasm given that Calum was clearly frequented with the use of needles.

Calum looked away impatiently, catching House's eye something subconsciously mutual passed between them. House reached for his Vicodin and took two while Wilson wiped Calum's arm with a cotton wool bud and busied himself marking the vial of blood and placing it in a tray.

"I part own The Diogenes Club, not too far from here, you heard of it? Famous for its poker…and ladies of course." He rolled down his sleeve and stood up to reach a hand deep into one of his pockets. "You should come by this Friday." He said handing House a leaflet, he never even looked at Wilson. Calum narrowed his eyes and cocked his head slightly as House reached out and took the leaflet. "Your poker face is good."

House felt Calum's eyes on him, he could see Wilson staring in of the corner of his eye. House nodded his thanks, glanced at the leaflet and pocketed it.

Calum smiled as he noted the slight interest spark in House's eye. "I'll see you both there maybe" he added, politely extending the invitation to Wilson.

"Thank you." replied Wilson, but neither House nor Calum were listening as they stared intensely at each other.

"Come back Thursday, at 2.00pm, for your results." House said abruptly.

Wilson opened the door for Calum, who blinked, looked at Wilson, nodded and mumbled confirmation before leaving without a backward glance.

House sat on his stool for a moment and Wilson let the door slowly close. They didn't say anything, slightly shell shocked. House got up to leave and Wilson followed.

---

"You Idiot. You absolute idiot." Wilson was staring House down. House smirked slightly hearing his own words turned against him, which fuelled Wilson's rant. "Brothers! I thought you had told him, but no…" They had left the clinic in silence and were in the elevator back up to their offices, where Wilson had erupted into the present. House took some Vicodin with a shaking hand. "…At least follow things through, House."

"I frequently follow through…"

A young nurse sharing the elevator gave an unseen look of disgust, and wisely got off a floor early. Wilson sighed at House's consistent immaturity.

"…I just decided not to tell him. That was okay until you butted in." He turned with accusation at Wilson.

"Oh so this is my fault?" Wilson whined with striking sarcasm.

"Blatantly! What made you interrupt? Curious? Malicious? Your maternal instinct got the better of you? At least -

"- Wait." Wilson frowned. "You paged me to come."

"No -"

"Yes…you did." Wilson grabbed his pager and showed House the message. FIND ME

Silence. House's face said it all. He reached for his pager. It wasn't there.

House muttered some profanities. His brow was sweating.

Silence.

"Huh." they both said.

The doors opened with a sarcastically optimistic 'ding', and emerged an angry Cuddy, holding House's pager in her fisted hand.

"Typical" Cuddy muttered under her breath "Thank you, Dr Wilson." She said with a sarcastic smile.

Wilson inwardly seethed as he was hit with a predictable wallop of blame.

"You have an emergency." She said, throwing the pager to House who caught it effortlessly without taking his eyes off Cuddy's boobs. "House! Emergency!" The note of urgency in her voice made House look up. His eyes were glazed and unfocused. He staggered a little bit, suddenly dizzy, a metallic taste crept liquidly along his palate. He was completely numb but for a tingling in his fingertips. His cane fell soundlessly to the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

House woke up in his chair, the blinds drawn on his office. His coat was draped over him, his leg was up on the foot stool. He groaned. His leg hurt, and so did his digestive system. His throat was sore and his stomach painfully empty.

'You're an idiot.' He thought to himself. The room was spinning when he opened his eyes, so he shut them again. He brought his arm heavily to his head and rubbing it through his hair to prove he was still whole. After a time, he sat up. Wilson was sitting opposite him, looking anxious and annoyed at the same time. House opened his eyes, the room was still empty, his head had lolled uncomfortably onto his shoulder. He stretched and sat up, groaning under his breath as the movement magnified the pain in his thigh. The room vibrated, his ears were ringing loudly. He sighed, checked his pockets, and his Vicodin was predictably absent. He's not certain whether he could stomach them right now anyway, and was medically sure that he shouldn't try. The room stilled.

He checked his watch, most of the day had gone, it would just be getting dark outside. Dusk fell through the windows of his office. His mind came into focus when his ears stopped buzzing loudly, the blood in his head calmed and rationalised its thumping. Noises came to him in slow motion, as if from afar they echoed though his mind. There was loud talking next door, the team were arguing over a diagnosis. Thirteen was whining about lab results, while Taub calmly asserting the same point three times. Kutner was still trying to defend his theory to an availing Foreman. They weren't the only ones there. 'This patient must be richer than I thought' though House, when he heard Cuddy's voice above the rest. She was discussing with Cameron how to proceed with the current treatment. Apparently the patient had been getting better, against their prognosis, until she lapsed into a coma. An Aussie over voice declared the situation hopeless, they had exhausted all their ideas. This prompted an optimistic pep talk, cut short by Kutner who had an idea, which quickly fell through and led to further argument and worried discussion. He listened for a while, and formed the jigsaw of the diagnosis in his head. Eventually the reddish light sinking through the windows shone gold on the pane before it disappeared, and the room looked cold. House stood up on his good leg, grabbed his cane and hobbled painfully towards the door, very aware of the lack of Vicodin in his blood. He walked into the differential room, the doctors turned and looked at him in silence.

Cuddy stepped forward. The rest of the room continued their discussions, with frequent glances at House revealing their preoccupied interests.

"How are you feeling?" she asked a bit too tentatively.

"You pumped my stomach." House said, his throat burning with the effort. "Why did -"

"You wouldn't vomit. You overdosed again, House." He leaned his head on the door frame. He looked ill, and tired.

House sidestepped the conversation route. "I need something for my leg."

Cuddy reached into her pocket and fumbled with the lid of a bottle, she handed him one pill. He looked at her incredulously, and then at the tiny pill between his fingers , before conceding that she wouldn't give him anymore and dry swallowed it despite his sore throat. He felt it slide reluctantly down his gullet, tauntingly slow. Cuddy was still looking at him, arms folded, serious.

"That wasn't Vicodin…If you give me back my pills, I'll tell you what's wrong with her." He said quietly.

"No, you'll tell us what's wrong with her because that's your job. Besides," Cuddy unfolded her arms and walked towards the desk to pick up the patients' file "you don't even know the symptoms. You said there was nothing wrong with her."

"There was nothing wrong with the Titanic, until it sank."

He glanced at the white board. More for show than anything, half of what was written was irrelevant or misdirected. He knew the answer, he'd been formulating it for quite some time. While he lay in that time between worlds of consciousness, when ideas collide, and occasionally spark. His bright blue eyes opened.

"Galactorrhoea-Hyperprolactinaemia. The increased prolactin levels made you think it was a thyroid disorder. Before that you thought her abnormal menstrual cycles meant breast cancer. It was a side affect of the Encephalitis that's raging in her brain, a rare complication from the flu she had when she came in, which is also why it didn't show up in the blood tests. Do a Lumbar puncture to conform. Pump her full of a targeted antibiotic," the room was silently intent on House's words, he looked at Cuddy "and hope for the best."

Silence. Their minds mechanically clicked away. Tick. Tick. Tick. House's leg throbbed. He banged his head lightly on the door frame, and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Do it." said Cuddy looking towards Thirteen and Taub. They left the room, followed by Kutner, Cameron and Chase. They all looked at House as they left. The low lights made their faces look long and shadowed. There was something new in their faces that House hadn't seen before. Something fearful. He must look worse than he thought. Foreman was half sitting on the desk, arms folded, intrigued. Cuddy glared at House, looking anxious and annoyed at the same time. House closed his eyes.

It was quiet here, in his head.

His mind felt heavy. The darkness spun from beneath him.

He opened his eyes. The room was empty, he was back in his office. It was dark now, the room was grey. Metallic. Like the taste that crept across his palate. He wanted to heave. The door of his outer office opened, letting in muffled voices. Wilson opened the door, the light played across House's face. It made him flinch, but he welcomed the sensation. He imagined its warmth, he could hear the hum of the electricity pulsing through the yellow light of the differential room. He sat up slowly and looked at Wilson, silhouetted against the door, hands on hips. House scoffed. Wilson frowned. House got up, turned the lights off and left behind the other doctors. They walked out in silence, Cuddy was ahead of them, hips swinging. House was clearly gawking, Wilson shook his head and smiled slightly. The only sound was of Cuddy's shoes tapping down the corridor, occasionally House breathed out sharply as he limped. They stopped when she reached the lift. She pressed the button. Down. They waited.

"Was I right?" House croaked in the silence.

They waited a moment.

The elevator dinged open. Light flooded the dim hallway.

"Yes", answered Cuddy sadly. They entered the lift. "But we were too late. We don't expect her to wake up now." Cuddy looked at House, exhausted. The doors slid shut and the corridor was left dark and empty.

---

House sat in the passengers seat of Wilson's car. His cane between his legs, his seat pushed back slightly. He didn't need to change the seat when he got in. He liked that. It was only him that used it, nowadays. Dying changes everything, sometimes it leaves things static that shouldn't be. Damning, lonely, yet there's still something assuring about certainties. Including death. House was getting the "…Seriously, House, you need help…" talk. He was staring out the window, the yellow lights made the condensation shine golden around the edge of the glass. "…Vicodin, your body…" House watched the people in the cars parallel to theirs at the lights, still shots of people he would never meet. "…pain levels, and different management schemes might…" A man shouting at a boy, in his anger he hadn't notice the lights changing to green, then pulled off late with a jerk and was gone. A silent caption of emotion. House turned his attention back to Wilson. "…all this business with your brother, we need to figure out what we're going to do." Wilson side glanced at House, sensing that he was listening now. Hands at two and ten.

"Is that what this was all about?"

House didn't answer.

"House!?" He turned.

"No, Wilson. This is purely pain's game. The Vicodin stopped working, it was taking more than twice the normal dose, just to take the edge off. It was only a matter of time…predictable and boring."

"You should have come to me sooner." When that brought no response Wilson sighed and changed tact. "How's the alternative Cuddy's given you?"

"It makes me nauseous. My mind's heavy, and fogged with intermittent synaesthesia."

Wilson nodded slightly and muttered something about expected side effects, tolerance and withdrawal…"keep at it for now, and"…

Silence eventually filled the car. House looked out of the window again.

"So what about your brother?"

"I'll run the labs and then see him two days from now in the clinic…"

Wilson dithered on the edge of a question. "Did you…see his arm?"

"Yup." Announced House, groping his blazer for his pills.

Wilson sighed.

"Are you going to the poker game?" He eventually asked.

"Maybe. I'll buy cheesecake." He said with mock light heartedness, he was too tired to pull off optimism.

"You'll have to tell him the truth."

"I did." He blew air from cheek to cheek, entering full sarcasm mode. "It was just diverted, when a huge gravitational mass of a conscience walked into the exam room." House turned with accusation at Wilson. Wilson grinned and glanced at House.

"You know we proved that Cuddy's fault -"

" - but Cuddy's great ass got her out of that one."

"She's angry with you."

"She's always angry. She's just hormonal. Besides, I can play the pity card." House, having found the plastic lump, reached into his pocket, and sighed when he felt the oddly shaped bottle. He slid a pill into his open palm.

"This time's different, she's losing hope in you."

"Hope is for sissies." House said, throwing back the pill.

Silence, but for the occasional tick, tick, tick of the indicator. House let his head fall back against the rest and closed his eyes.

"What pizza shall we get?" Wilson asked, indirectly proposing he stop the night. He indicated to pull up outside House's apartment, House opened one eye, the road was empty. Typically Wilson. House smiled slightly, hoping Wilson hadn't noticed.

* * *

**Hello! Thanks for all the reviews! For those who are interested, I based Calum's character on Mycroft Holmes, the brother of Sherlock Holmes; it seemed appropriate given that House is based on Sherlock. Hope you enjoy!**


	4. Chapter 4

House groaned and reached for his leg. He pushed his head further into his pillow and shut his eyes tight, against the morning trying to prise them open. Then his alarm splintered his unconscious. His blue eyes flung open, and his pupils contracted. He reached for his alarm and then for his Vicodin, finding unfamiliar pills, he groaned again and took them anyway. He opened his draw in the bedside, reached to the back and took a little something extra, for good measure. He had stopped at home yesterday, at Wilson's insistence, but he was worse with nothing to occupy his mind. He heard Wilson making breakfast in the kitchen. Food. He hobbled about, pulling on some crinkled jeans and t-shirt and followed his nose to the kitchen. Waffles. He grinned. Wilson greeted him, occasionally massaging a cricked neck from the couch, while House eagerly waited for him to slide some waffles on to two plates.

"You've got your appetite back." Wilson noted.

House nodded between mouthfuls.

House wondered how Wilson had managed to do his hair so quietly. It looked fluffy and buoyantly soft, House passionately pursued the last of his waffles, while not taking his eyes of the hypnotic bounce of golden-brown hair. The synchronised wave. Wilson dropped his fork on the floor with a crash. House jumped and his mind reeled back into the room. He shook his head to try and clear it. The hallucinations should at least be worth while. Cuddy's cleavage. Methylenedioxymethamphetamine. Oh boy. He hoped he wouldn't see Chase, his hair was twice as bouncy as Wilson's.

"Why don't you want to see Chase?" Wilson asked, now cleaning a few things. House paused, dumfounded, before his rational mind set in.

"Did I say that out loud?"

"You've been mumbling for five minutes." He looked concerned. "What have you taken? Your pupils have blown." He approached House, automatically taking his penlight out and checking his responses. House blinked and pushed his away.

"Nothing. It's just withdrawal, pull your doctorate out of your bra." he paused a moment for his witticism to sink in. "…What did I say?"

"Something about golden bears, and bouncy breasts…" He turned away and continued cleaning. "…and I think you said something in Japanese…" Wilson frowned to himself.

"Wow." House scoffed, contented that he hadn't said anything he would regret. He got up, grabbed his cane and headed towards the bathroom. "Don't you psychoanalyse me" he warned light-heartedly as he left.

Wilson decided to leave it. Although, House's singing coming from the shower ten minutes later assured Wilson that he had taken something.

"… singing in the rain, what a glorious…"

House was nicer when he was high. He made a mental note to mention his song choice later on, hopefully to House's embarrassment.

---

Wilson had been keeping a pedantic eye on House all morning. It was just House now, Wilson had work to do and was reasonably satisfied House was lucid enough to not put any lives at risk. The team were with him pretty regularly. But he was alone now. The lab was cold. House pulled the piece of paper out of the machine. It was the piece he had been waiting for. Trying to pretend to the machines that he was as calculating and uninterested as they were. He looked over the results. POSITIVE. He smiled slightly to himself, a little unsure how he was supposed to respond. That was a good thing for now, he was right. That was enough. He would tell Calum that his blood tests were all normal.

He pocketed the piece of paper, feeling the leaflet for The Diogenes Club poking him through his blazer. He had run a basic metabolic panel on the blood so that at least it looked like he didn't have an illegal agenda. He placed the official results in his folder and limped out of the room in search of Wilson, and lunch.

He found Wilson entering the cafeteria, just in time to grab a tray behind him and actively ignore the scowl of doctors and nurses, who by now knew better than to say anything.

"Jimmy, I was right." House said leaning in, and looking round suspiciously like he was revealing a secret. "I should be Doctor Mycroft".

Wilson smiled at the look of momentary enjoyment on House's face. Cuddy's voice rang out above the noise of the cafeteria. "HOUSE!"

"Wouldn't have to same ring to it." Wilson said, reaching for a plate of salad.

House winced as he heard Cuddy wail his name again.

"I don't like either" House reached for a Reuben sandwich, completely ignoring Cuddy storming past a group of interns to get to House. "I'm going by Frankenstein from now on."

"House!" Cuddy said exasperated.

House looked around, and mocked a startled expression as she stared at him in anger.

"You have discovered my monstrous experiment."

"You can't cut into somebody's brain without justification!" she said waving some papers under his nose. "It is not medically justified, and is too big a risk for the hospital."

"But I can bring him to life. A vegetative state is boundless in the hands of science!"

Cuddy narrowed her eyes. "Well death is a pretty clear boundary, and you need _medical justification_ before you can risk his life." She turned to leave. "And get _fully _informed consent next time. We can't afford another law suit."

"That would be monstrous" he said with a look of false aghast. "Abhorrent."

Cuddy left. House turned back to Wilson who had already paid for both their lunches, House's eye mischievously glinted.

"I'm not being Igor." Wilson protested dryly.

"You've been Igor for years." House replied with sincerity and moved towards a table. Wilson followed behind, a little hurt and unsure whether to pursue it further.

"You're calling me a hunch-backed dwarf?" Wilson slid into a seat opposite.

House looked up from his food, captivated at the effect his insult had upon Wilson.

"Why did you become a doctor?" House said while chewing his food.

"What does that have to do with it?" Wilson asked, neatly attacking his salad.

"Just answer the question."

"I suppose to help -"

" - exactly." House interrupted.

"How…what does that prove?"

"You're a stock character."

Wilson gave House a questioning look. "A … stock character?"

House nodded slightly, chewing his food slowly and staring at Wilson with interest.

"You're a stereotype." He took a bite of his sandwich. "A middle-class philanthropist with boyish charm and a messed up personal life. A sitcom doctor."

Wilson didn't say anything to this apparent revelation. He pinned down a tomato and chewed it violently. House was still staring, intrigued.

"Except sometimes, you're unpredictable." House grinned, thinking back to how they had met, Wilson didn't say anything but was secretly pleased.

They ate in silence. House looked at his watch. He was due to meet Calum in the clinic in three quarters of an hour. That was enough time to squeeze a viable medical justification out of his team, as if a logical and succinct assumption wasn't enough to warrant brain surgery. House got up slowly, Wilson noticed him leaning heavily on his cane. He looked up from his half eaten salad, chewing with less passive aggression as he noticed House's face show an inkling of pain before House turned his head and avoided Wilson's sympathetic eyes. Typical House. Doctor Frankenstein walked out of the cafeteria and Wilson smiled slightly at the idea. It faded slowly as he thought about House's brother, the scars on his arm, the frustration behind bright blue eyes.

* * *

**Thanks again for the reviews, feedback is really appreciated! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

House sat massaging his leg in the differential room. The team were discussing the patient; House's diagnosis had been proven wrong and Cuddy was no doubt gloating in her office, possibly stabbing a House shaped Voodoo doll in the leg. He took a hand-full of pills, delicately balancing his Vicodin withdrawal with his new drugs by taking more than the recommended dosage. The team were discussing the diagnosis.

"Intracranial pressure must be causing -"

"The scans showed nothing."

"Well then vascular pressure."

"No haemorrhaging or stroke."

"How about poisoning? Ethanol, lead…"

"Liver, pancreas and heart are healthy, not consistent with the amount of contact or consumption recurred to -"

"Contusion-"

"No signs of trauma."

The diagnosis seemed to melt before House's eyes, dripping slowly from the sticky glass walls. The colours in the room turned dark and sinister, teeth shone blue and green steam spouted from the doctors' noses as they laughed. The faces loomed towards him, cawing questions at him, their words threatening to pop their ballooning faces.

House jolted and opened his eyes. Taub was hovering over him.

"House, are you feeling all right? What have you taken?"

"I… nothing" he replied looking up when he detected the worn out tone of Taub.

"You were shouting."

House paused.

"Well your diagnoses were ridiculous."

"What diagnoses?" Kutner interjected.

"Vegetative state guy." House stared at them increasingly angry. They stared back increasingly confused.

"He died yesterday."

House wiped the sweat off his brow and leaned forward, still disorientated.

"He…no…you…how did he?"

"Post-mortem showed an adrenal insufficiency, resulted in Hyponatremia, eventually declined into a coma and lost all brain function."

"I see. Then what are we doing here?"

Kutner, Taub and Thirteen looked at each other and cackled.

House opened his eyes.

"House, are you feeling all right?" Kutner asked, a little unsure of himself.

"What are we doing here?" Two blurred copies of the room collided and fell into focus.

"We're trying to diagnose Clive."

House looked blankly back at Kutner.

"Vegetative state guy." he prompted.

House stared.

"Didn't the post-mortem give you a hint?"

Thirteen looked at House. "He's not dead. Yet."

"I see." House paused, then cocked his head to one side and a smile threatened to curl his lips. "Have you checked his adrenal function?"

"He doesn't show any of the preliminary symptoms -" Thirteen countered.

"That's because he's in a vegetative state! He looks fatigued to me. Do a CT and start him on a strong steroid."

The team hurried out of the room, House sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. His eyes were tired but wide open. Lucid, for now, he looked at his watch and left for the clinic. He would meet his brother and then go home, to sleep, or pretend to sleep and trick his conscious mind into submission. He took out his iPod, chose something to suit the mood and walked, with a heavy limp, towards the clinic. The music was blaring loudly in his ears, the heavy base making his brain throb and forget his own pulse as his body seemed to vibrate with music. People came in and out of the elevator, and the world moved on silently outside House's head. The guitar gently weeps, as scenes of each floor momentarily flash past the open doors of the elevator; a bed is rushed past by an entourage of nurses and doctors, an old man is being helped up off the floor, two men arguing, a child crying. House stepped out of the lift when he reached the clinic, a man walked past coughing into a wet handkerchief, a woman's head shot forward as she sneezed. House grimaced and removed his earphones, the residual ringing gave way quickly against the avalanche of noise, a writhing humanity of echoic coughs, damp colds and red babies crying.

House limped past it all, grabbed the chart from the wall next to the door of exam room two, hooking his cane over his arm he flicked the file open and shouldered open the door. Calum was sitting on the bed, legs dangling, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. House sat down on the stool opposite, glancing at the chart although he knew the details off by heart.

"Hello, Calum."

"Hi."

"Your test results are all fine."

"That's good."

House nodded slowly. "Except…I…" House looked at Calum's blue eyes and sighed. "Except your potentially slightly anaemic."

"Potentially slightly?"

House narrowed his eyes slightly, regretting having changed his mind so late. He didn't want to tell him. Everybody lies.

"Err, yeah. Never mind. Just keep up the meat eating." House looked at his cane between his hands. "But your all good to run off into the sunset."

Calum stood up from the bed.

"That was a wasted letter you sent Doctor House."

House looked up at the sound of his name.

Calum smiled at the effect. "As good as your poker face is, prod a computer system in the right place and it will tell you _anything_. It takes an imagination to lie…and a motive." They stared at each other.

"Giggles?" House provided, always one to paste over insecurities with humour; more than occasionally at the expense of the insecure.

Calum laughed and walked to the door.

"I'll see you tomorrow night then won't I? At The Diogenes Club?" He said, turning back to House before he left the room.

House waited, and considered. He could hear the noise of the clinic now the door had been opened.

"Yeah, I guess you might." Very noncommittal.

Calum nodded and left the exam room. He placed his hands deep in his pockets as he walked out of the clinic, and smiled to himself. The same smile crept across House's face as he sat in the empty exam room, and the door slowly closed.

---

House got home early. He limped through the apartment, cane-less and gripping furniture for support as he headed for the toilet. He threw up his lunch and sat on the edge of the tub where he ran cold water over his face with a shaking hand, and avoided looking in the mirror. He didn't have the strength to run a bath, even though it would have helped his leg. The bathroom was too bright anyway. He crawled awkwardly into bed, the dull light leaking through the curtains sank on top of him and melted into darkness, as his eye lids grew heavy and closed.

He was in a small, dark room. Light shone round the rim of the door, eclipsed by the wood, the lock clicked in and out of place. Click. Click. Click. He wanted to shout, but he had no voice, unless that laughter was his own. A clown's cackle.

The street was empty, lined with bars and nightclubs that should have been heaving with people. Calum staggered towards him out of nowhere. He held a needle in his fisted hand, his sleeve rolled up, he was cackling, high. He reached for House as if to embrace him, but stopped and handed him the syringe instead, House looked down it was full of blood, marked in Wilson's handwriting.

His dreams began to tumble, he jumped as his mind fell back into the mattress, opening his eyes as his conscious caught itself. He lay still for a moment and then reached to the bedside and took several pills. The room was dark now, he looked at the clock - 8.30pm. His leg was unbelievable painful and he gritted his teeth while he waited for the pills to role dryly down the back of his throat. He groaned and rolled out of bed, trying not to gag and lose much of the drugs leaking into his system. He massaged his leg as he sat on the edge of the bed, eventually he reached for his phone and dialled Cuddy.

The phone rang loudly in his ear. He shook his head and breathed out with a slight gasp.

"Hello. House?"

"I need…I need to restart my Vicodin."

"House, it's only been two days, you're -"

"No. Nothing's working. I need my Vicodin."

There was a silence between the two. House waited, holding his breath.

"Okay." she uttered reluctantly. Cuddy heard House breath out sharply with relief, and pain. "Come to my office first thing in the morning and we'll discuss a new pain management programme. I can't allow you to be taking the same levels…"

House agreed in monosyllabic dialog while Cuddy spoke.


	6. Chapter 6

Cuddy's heals pounded down the corridor. Burgundy, an inch too high to be sensible, two inches too high to be comfortable. She reached House's office and walked in without knocking.

"House. New case."

He was sitting at his desk, reading an article and playing an online game of chess. He looked up briefly and moved a pawn to be sacrificed, before again being engrossed in his article.

"Skinny blonde of 28." Cuddy enticed him.

House looked up and raised his eyebrows, he held out his hand for the file. Cuddy smiled to herself as she handed it over, then turned quickly to storm out with drama.

"The patient's male." House said, opening the file. "And anorexic."

"That's what I said." Cuddy said without turning round.

House sighed as she left the office. He flicked through the file with annoyance and paused when he looked at the symptoms. He turned his head to the side, in deep thought.

"Huh…" He reached for his pager and called the team. He downed his half filled mug of coffee, barely warm, and reached into his pocket for his newly grown collection of pills. He greedily took a Vicodin first. Its familiar shape felt…familiar, and that was good enough in its own right. Cuddy had agreed to putting him back on Vicodin, but less of it and in conjunction with a balance of different drugs, to keep his tolerance threshold at a reasonable level. In the long run it should be better for him, his liver would have to cope either way. It was late morning. There had been a case, but it was easily dispelled and the team were mostly working in the clinic. Now this one looked interesting, the psychology was tantalising and the symptoms gruesomely incongruent.

He limped to the door of his office and threw the file onto the table of the main room, it slid along and spread its pages slightly, but House smiled smugly as it landed fairly neatly and intact. He turned and walked out onto the balcony while he waited for the team to arrive. The air was cold, it felt good in his lungs. He stretched out his neck and raised his chin to look over into Wilson's office. He was sitting at his desk, writing. He hopped up on to the wall between his and Wilson's office, carefully guiding his right leg over while his left followed with graceful ease. He limped to the door and knocked loudly with the curve of his cane, he smiled slyly as Wilson jumped and his pen skewed across the words he had just written. House saw him curse and then sigh while he opened the door and entered the room. The wind stopped, but left House's hair ruffled with a distinct lean, reflecting the stance of the man before he sat down opposite Wilson.

"You're still coming?"

"Coming where?" replied Wilson, busying himself trying to restore the (debatable) legibility of the documents.

"The poker game."

Wilson continued with his paper, before realising he hadn't been listening. "Where?"

House looked slightly awkward now.

"The poker game." He repeated with a note of annoyance.

"Oh, right." Wilson nodded as he suddenly remembered. "If you want me to."

House didn't nod, but lowered his eyes slightly in a way that suggested he did. He didn't need to answer, why else would he ask?

Wilson hesitated. "Won't it be -"

"He knows I lied about my name. He's curious now. So am I."

Wilson nodded slowly.

"What time shall I pick you up?"

---

"Sudden, extreme weight-loss. Depression, fever and the troublesome growth of duplicate organs. Go."

Kutner, Taub, Foreman and Thirteen looked at the file incredulously as House spoke.

"Duplicate organs? That's impossible." Taub stated, crossing his legs and putting the file down.

"Well apparently not." House countered with sarcasm. "Unfortunately, beefy-boy there only needs so much small intestine. The rest is dead-weight."

"He's suffered with Anorexia Nervosa for an extensive period, presumably there's a lot wrong with him internally." Thirteen suggested as she scanned his history.

Foreman turned his head to the side as he looked through the file. "Actually, he seems in pretty good shape, considering his BMI is severely low. He's undeniably emaciated, but other than that his direct symptoms appear to be purely psychological."

"Which means we should question the validity of the Anorexia." Kutner said looking up. "It must be a digestive problem. Total malabsorption would cause the weight loss, leading to a serotonin imbalance which presents the psychological problems."

House nodded "Then what would cause the malabsorption?"

"Celiac disease." Thirteen inserted.

"No family history, and the symptoms are only present over the last year." Taub countered.

"There's an elephant in the room." House leaned his cheek on his hand as he looked at the drawn face of the young man on the front of the file. "The man's growing organs! At an impressive rate. And the labs show it's workable tissue; this man has done unwittingly what stem-cell researchers have been attempting for years. A rooky with an extra intestine, might pave the runway of all metaphors for stem-cell development."

The team felt the immediate sense of expectation weighing down on them. House smirked - "Or, he could just be an alien. A Time-Lord -" House frowned "intestines are less cool than hearts."

Kutner laughed, the others just stared. He shrugged shyly and mumbled something about watching a lot of TV.

Forman ignored the banter. "It could be Autoimmune hepatitis. If his body is attacking his liver, the cells could enter the blood stream and alter normal cell mitosis."

House nodded. "Get him tested, and get me a chunk of this blossoming organ." Foreman and thirteen left. House nodded towards Taub. "Do a CT to check he doesn't have any other extra organs floating around. And Kutner, re-do the psych workup."

They two doctor left close behind the others. House was eventually left alone, satisfied by the preoccupation such a mystery presented to his mind.

---

Many hours later, they were back where they had started. More symptoms on the board and tired, sunken eyes all round. It was dark outside now. Nothing had been conclusive, the patient had been improving, before getting drastically worse. And, as of half an hour ago, it was definitely not Lupus.

Kutner leaned on the glass wall of the office, feet crossed and arms folded. "The difference is that we've been giving him a steady supply of nutrients, his body will be acting differently, and since the problem's in his digestive tract…"

House looked up. He saw Wilson walking towards him down the hallway. "Remove the excess small intestine, and take with you the defective cells that caused the mutation. Monitor him closely and we'll see what's mothering these organs."

"Cuddy won't -"

"She will. This is the guys best chance. It's already in his lungs, we need to head it off."

The team got up to leave as Wilson walked into the office.

"You ready to go?" He said.

The team looked round. "But we still don't have a diagnosis -"

House grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, and limped over to his bag sitting spineless in the corner.

"Call me when you find something."

The team left, walking past Wilson who had quickly manoeuvred out of the way of the door.

"If you need to -"

"No." House cut him off. "There's nothing…until after his surgery." he looked up at Wilson.

Wilson nodded and held open the door while House fumbled one handed with his coat.


	7. Chapter 7

A woman's heels pounded the bar, the long slender point tapping the wood, to woops of joy from the numerous male patrons. Lacy material was wrapped around her naked legs, snaking in a loose zigzag - upwards. Towards the centre of the dimly lit room were several round poker tables, each seating eight. Most had about a half dozen people sitting round them, deeply into their games, the smoke from their cigarettes pooling beneath the lights that hung low over each table. Jazz music played loudly - Sidney Bechet. Calum spotted them and he put his cards face down, pulled the cigar out of his mouth and headed over to greet them.

"Doctor House, Doctor Wilson!"

"Just House."

"James." Wilson said, leaning in to shake the man's hand.

"House, Jimmy, have a cigar!"

Wilson politely declined, a little red on the cheeks.

House looked at the cigar newly thrust into his hand, critically examining it.

"Figurado. Cuaba?"

"Only the best, House. I know a man, got them cheap." Calum looked at Wilson disappointed and placed his cigar back in his mouth to talk out of one side while he reached for a light. "'A smoke in times of rest is a great companion to the solitary soldier'…Che Guevara said that."

"I'm not a Marxist." replied Wilson, coughing aside as House blew smoke in his face.

"It's about the rebellion Jimmy." Calum said and House smiled. The two faces peered at Wilson through the smoke, and he realised this would probably be a long night.

"Come join our table, we've just dealt, you can jump in on the next hand."

---

Two hands in, Wilson was doing surprisingly well, but his poor poker face revealed this to be luck, he sat looking at his hand with smug surprise. Calum side glanced at him suspiciously, catching House's eye - who was sitting between the two - and smirked.

"Jimmy's whipping us." Calum muttered.

"Ah, he's incapable of bluffing - " House stopped, and looked up suddenly realising something. The pieces quickly slotted into place in his mind, he threw his cards face down on the table, mumbling 'fold' while he stood up and heaved his leg round. He reached for his phone and stood a little away from the table. He dialled Foreman's phone, he was looking smug now, Wilson frowned at him and lost concentration in the game as he waited to listen to what House was doing.

"Whipple's" House said. "Put me on speaker."

Calum looked round and joined in Wilson's frowning, before shrugging and placing a high bet. House waited for a click and a verbal confirmation from Foreman.

"Whipple's disease. Biopsy the organ again. This time look for PAS-positive macrophage inclusions. Produced excess growth within the organ, together with his malnourishment resulted in the disruption of normal cell division. We were right about what, but wrong about why. Start him on tetracycline and sulfadiazine." Calum cheered at the table, others groaned and started shouting about cheating, the music throbbed, Calum smirked and placed the cigar in his mouth.

The team looked at each other as House hung up.

"He sounded like he was at a rave."

---

They were nearing the end of the game. Wilson had fell on hard times, trying to continue with a few meagre chips while House was battling it out with Calum and another man sitting opposite, with a bald head and no discernable emotion whatsoever. The bloke was mulling over his cards for longer than was necessary, House mimicked his face, one eyebrow raised ambiguously and lips drawn in concentration. Wilson stifled a laugh and the bald man looked up, his naked head reflecting the light. House looked back with innocence and the man drew up his lip in disgust and bared his yellow teeth.

The noise in the room was dulled now, the man calmly placed his cards down, stood up and placed his hands on the table. Calum sensed something was wrong and went to stand up and intervene, but the man lifted the table and pushed it hard towards House. With a crash that silenced the room, Wilson, Calum and House fell backwards, dragging a passing waitress to the floor. The cards and chips fell everywhere, raining in cold thuds on the men's heads. House grunted as he landed and reached for his leg, Wilson hit his nose and stared blankly at his bloody hands. Calum landed awkwardly from his half standing position, the table crushed down onto his right thigh and he yelled out. The other men from surrounding tables, regulars, friends of Calum, jumped up and surrounded the man. House lost track of what was happening, but he heard the man being dragged out to cheers, as others helped the fallen off the floor. The waitress, extremely annoyed, was nursing a grazed knee and hand while a woman tried unhelpfully to wipe the blood of Wilson's face. She was trying to hold his nose with a handkerchief as he spluttered from a half sitting position. House had been helped up and was fervently rubbing his thigh while opening his Vicodin with one hand. Calum was still lying on the floor, somebody had called an ambulance, House had made sure it was to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. By the shape of his leg House suspected Calum had broken his femur, it had taken four big men to lift the table off. House reached down and handed the man two Vicodin, he took them gratefully without asking what they were. House grimaced a half grin at how quickly he downed them, then swung his head back and take three for himself.

Eventually the three were packed into the back of an ambulance. Calum seemed contented, but his face was pale. The paramedics were fussing with Wilson, whose nose was still bleeding and had so far refused any attention from House. Inspecting Calum's leg House decided the break didn't seem too serious, although it would be a while before he walked normally again. He sat back, jolting slightly as the ambulance turned corners at speed. Calum looked up at House.

"We're related, aren't we?" It was an offhand question, but the light heartedness behind the voice had trouble maintaining itself.

House was stunned for a moment, then he nodded slowly.

"You're not my father are you?" He was serious now.

House laughed and shook his head. "I'm not that old."

"You look pretty old to me."

"That's drugs for you." House said sarcastically, looking awkwardly at the roof of the ambulance.

Calum looked worried for a moment and then nodded.

House looked back to Calum, who seemed to be waiting for him to continue.

"I did a blood test. We have the same father."

Calum's face didn't change, but he let head loll back onto the stretcher.

"So, we're brothers." Calum hesitated as he said the words.

"Half-brothers."

Calum wheezed a laugh. "Now we'll both have limps."

"And plenty of addictive pain meds to go around."

Calum grunted his approval.

House tried to work out how he could have known.

"Well you were suspicious." Calum provided when he saw House frowning to himself. "And I am a computer genius, with a healthy curiosity" Calum said "…unhealthy curiosity." He added, and smiled knowingly to himself.

They were silent for a moment, listening to Wilson fumbling his words at the Paramedic who had stopped the bleeding but had now mostly obscured Wilson's face with bandages.

"He's a good guy." Calum mumbled.

House nodded. "Yeah, he's…he's my best friend."

"He's a bad poker player."

"He has a complicated relationship with truth; too much guilt in the man for a good bluff."

"I saw through yours." replied Calum.

"But I still defeated you at poker -"

" - we never finished."

"Then I _would_ have defeated you at poker."

"My ass you would have. I can read you." Calum sat up on his elbows. "Your poker face isn't perfect. You just turn away when you don't want people to see what your thinking."

"And it works."

"Not on Wilson. Not on me." Calum smiled and lay back down. He closed his eyes and started humming to himself. Wilson had his eyes closed and was cradling his nose, contented by the drugs the paramedic had given him.

House's lips curled into a smile.

The ambulance jolted down the road towards the hospital.


	8. Chapter 8

House was wheel chaired into the ER between Calum's gurney and Wilson, the walking wounded. House rubbed his forehead with his hand, hating the humiliation of being pushed. As they approached the buzz of the ER, House nudged the nurse with his cane.

"I can push myself."

"But I'm -"

Before she could finish, House took hold of the wheels and pushed himself along, faster than the nurse could hold on. She let out an exasperated sigh and helped Wilson towards a bed to wait for somebody to see to his nose. House followed and heaved himself on the empty bed next to Wilson. Calum was wheeled next to them, the curtains were drawn, and the three lay rather awkwardly in a row.

"I'm sorry." Wilson mumbled after a few moments, sounding like he had a bunged up nose.

House and Calum looked at each other and laughed.

"What?!" Wilson whined.

"All that guilt, Jimmy, this was House's fault." Calum sniggered.

"Oh sure." House added sarcastically "I pushed the table myself."

Calum looked with humoured accusation at House. "You mocked the guy!"

"But Wilson laughed." Replied House turning with a look of mock disappointment to Wilson who was tentatively feeling his nose.

Before Wilson could apologise again the curtains around their three beds were pulled open and Cameron appeared.

"Hello I'm -" She looked up and frowned. "House? What are you…?"

"My leg hurts." He replied.

"Your leg always hurts." She said dryly.

"And Wilson's broken his nose." House said innocently, nodding his head sideways at the bed next to him.

Cameron squinted at Wilson through the blood and hastily applied bandages. "Wilson?"

"Hello, Doctor Cameron." He muttered, indistinctly. Cameron appeared overwhelmed with sympathy.

"And my brother's broken his femur."

"How did you -" Cameron began to ask, but stopped short and looked at House and then to Calum.

"Your…brother?" Sympathy vanished and a school-girl curiosity took over.

Calum waved "That's me, with the misshapen leg. Can I have some more pain meds?"

Cameron frowned and looked between the two men.

"Me too." added House.

Cameron didn't move for a moment, her facial expression frozen in surprise. Eventually she looked down at the files in her hands, flicked to Calum's and skim read his recent medical history.

"Yes, I'll get you a prescription of…" Cameron hesitated, as she checked his history and his association with the hospital. "…Vicodin." she concluded, fully aware of the irony.

"Only the best, Calum." House grinned. "I'll have what he's having." he added to Cameron.

"Right, I'll book you in for an X-ray, Mr…Mycroft. Doctor Wilson I'll get somebody to come and look at your nose."

Wilson nodded delicately. Cameron's eyes lingered on House and Calum, before she looked back to Wilson. He had followed her eyes, he nodded again. She frowned and left quickly.

Within twenty minutes a nurse had given the pain meds to Calum and House. Somebody had seen to Wilson's nose, once the bleeding had stopped, they had set the fracture right and he was now sitting in a chair with an embarrassing bandage, looking particularly displeased. House had slyly moved Calum up the waiting list for an x-ray, and was attempting to cheer Wilson up. So far the nudges didn't seem to please him. The curtains opened, and once again Cameron appeared. The curtains were drawn wider and Kutner was there along with Taub and a growing gathering of familiar nurses. House faltered mid-nudge.

"Is something the matter?" House asked.

"No." Said Cameron guiltily. The other staff seemed to be gossiping and staring between Calum and House, one bold nurse was pointing. Cameron pulled the curtains closed again, a little flushed. Kutner and Taub sidled through anyway.

"The x-ray should be available soon" Cameron said as she began probing Calum's leg.

"How's the treatment working?" House said loudly, looking at his distracted employees.

"The…?" Kutner replied, only just turning to House.

"The treatment." House repeated with impatience. "For the Whipple's dude. I assume that's what you're here for."

"Oh, right, yes. I've come to tell you he's doing well. Quite…well…considering, that is." Kutner winced, that sounded phoney.

"Right." House said, elongating the vowels and glaring at Kutner.

"What happened?" Taub asked.

"Wilson started a fight."

"I did not." Came a muffled voice.

House seemed pleased with himself, the others frowned.

Cameron opened the curtains and began to back Calum's gurney out to take him for an x-ray. The crowd of nurses had grown, they parted as Cameron pulled the gurney out; Calum seemed to be enjoying it.

"What's with all the attention?" He asked Cameron as she and another nurse transported him across the emergency room.

"House is…House is a mystery. A famous and arrogant ass of a mystery. An apparition of his past shows up, people are intrigued." Cameron looked at Calum, she was shocked by how similar their eyes looked, Calum held his thigh tightly.

"He told me he was an only child." She continued. "Are you… are you really his brother?"

"I'm his half-brother." Calum said before shrugging. "I think so anyway. He says so. It…it makes a lot of sense."

"Are you related paternally? How did you meet? What do you think of him?" Cameron brimmed with questions, which Calum was barely able to begin answering before they reached the x-ray room.

---

"Is he really your brother?" Taub asked forwardly.

"Somebody's been gossiping."

Taub and Kutner eagerly waited for an answer.

"Yes, he's my brother. Why do you care?"

"Just curious." Answer Kutner as he checked Wilson's file.

"Why do you care that we care?" Asked Taub.

House held his thigh tightly. He sighed. "Never mind."

"I can check you out now if you want, Doctor Wilson, everything seems fine and you haven't lost too much blood."

"Thank you, Doctor Kutner." Sighed Wilson, standing up slowly.

Kutner and Taub left with lingering backward glances, while Wilson struggled with his jacket.

"I'm sorry Wilson." House said frankly when they were finally alone.

Wilson didn't look at House. It felt like a similar situation, but this time the pain was physical. Wilson deliberated the evening, the past six months, in his mind, trying to blame House for everything. For the pain. Eventually he sighed deeply, like he was letting go of something.

"It…wasn't your fault House." He looked him directly in the eye. The words felt unreal in his mouth, his eyes stung. "It wasn't your fault."

House nodded slowly, blinked quickly and looked down.

"I'll see you Monday, Wilson."

"See you Monday, House."

Wilson hobbled away, looking distinctly more like Igor as he attempted to walk with dignity while cradling his nose and bruised side.

House was left alone. The buzz of the ER had died down slightly and he could hear a lone gurney being pushed down the hallway, it had a dodgy wheel. Clink. Clink. Clink. House massaged his thigh, and took a Vicodin straight from the bottle. It would be so easy just to relax his tongue and take them all, he could sleep. He took one, and placed the cap tightly on the bottle. After a while he got up, and headed towards the reception desk to sign himself out. Having signed his name, ignoring the whispers of the nurses, he turned and limped heavily through the emergency room. He breathed out sharply when he stepped down on his bad leg. He stopped before he left, he was going to go home…to sleep. Blissful sleep. He hadn't slept properly in weeks and Calum would be fine on his own. He looked at the sign on the wall. There, 'x-rays - waiting room' was listed, with an arrow pointing left, while the main exit was listed as straight on. He hesitated…maybe what he really needed was a coffee. He turned left and limped down the hallway to wait for Calum.

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**Hey everyone, the next chapter will finish off the story, thanks for reading and thanks for the reviews! I really hope you have enjoyed it :)**


	9. Chapter 9

Cameron walked back through the waiting room towards the ER. She faltered for a moment when she saw House slouching in a chair, head dozing, a plastic cup of coffee balanced loosely between his hand and chest. He jumped when a woman sneezed loudly, automatically reaching for his thigh, he spilt the last of his drink on his arm. He cursed and looked up at a looming Cameron, with a growing smirk on her face. She handed him a tissue from her pocket, he nodded his thanks glumly. Cameron's smile faded as she sat down next to House.

"Calum's in surgery for his leg. He should be fine. He'll need physiotherapy for several months though, before he can walk without crutches…or a cane."

House nodded, while he concentrated on wiping the coffee stain.

Cameron hesitated.

"We did a blood test…He had a lot of cocaine in his system, House."

House nodded again, and began fumbling for his pills with a slightly shaking hand.

"Who doesn't these days?" He joked, still fumbling, and avoiding looking at Cameron.

"House."

He popped the lid of his pills, slipped one into his open palm and looked up at Cameron.

"Maybe it's just the way things are. Despite everything. Everybody is messed up. The past doesn't even matter." House threw back his head and took the pill. "The biology is inevitable." He laughed wryly.

"Calum's going to have to stay in the hospital for a few days, at least. We can see him through withdrawal. Maybe you can work on the rest together."

House breathed a sad laugh. Rattling his pills gently between his fingers, they felt cold against the plastic.

"Maybe."

Cameron got up to leave, she placed a hand sympathetically on his shoulder. House seemed to ignore it but he felt the warmth, and appreciated it.

Eventually the room was emptied, but of dispersed family eagerly awaiting somebody or other. Everybody sat still. House looked up to the large clock on the wall. The hands had stopped. Paused on a single minute of an insignificant evening. It didn't tick. The room was quite. The beginnings of a smile crept along House's lips.

_- Two Months Later -_

Two canes rested against House's couch. A solo was being played on the electric guitar, the amp vibrating the sound around the room, echoing off the walls, and down the empty hallway outside. The notes were high, delicately plucked, almost sad. Then the deep chords of the piano could be heard, perfectly complimenting the tune; filling in the sombre pauses between the notes of the guitar. The chords sped up, forcing the guitar to play faster, the notes sweeter. House's fingers moved quickly on the strings, wincing a grin as he concentrated on keeping up with the tune. Calum laughed and hit the chords faster, until House's finger slipped, missed a beat, he cursed and echoed his brother's laugh. The piano stopped and the deep notes resonated as they withdrew into silence.

_The End_

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**Thanks for reading :) and especially thanks to 'i luv ewansmile' for the great feedback! Really appreciate all the reviews, let me know what you thought if you get the chance and hopefully I'll have a new story up here before long - if college doesn't get too hectic in the meantime!**


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